


The one with the deadly painting and the Mile High Club

by afra_schatz



Series: rich blokes au [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Humour, M/M, dashiell hammett, rich blokes au, the thin man - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/pseuds/afra_schatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which they visit Sean’s parents, Sean is suspiciously excitable (and it’s not exclusively because of French pastry), and Orlando proves to be excellent at surveillance, even when sober and accidentally surrounded by lingerie. Also, there is questionable artwork, a dead stranger, and an extensive post-mortem, figuratively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one with the deadly painting and the Mile High Club

The location: Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. In a plane, obviously. Both Orlando and especially Sean are rather rich and a little eccentric when it comes to spending their money. But they still haven’t managed to find a surgeon willing to attach wings to their backs. 

The time: It’s a bit hard to say. Sean always gets time zones confused and turns his watch back and forth at least thrice on each flight. Orlando doesn’t really care one way or the other. It’s probably sufficient to say that it’s the middle of April, close to Sean’s 54th birthday.

The people: There is a whole Boing full of them to begin with. Literally, as well as metaphorically speaking. As per usual, only very few of them are of relevance, and some of them end up dead.

So, it all starts with this flight from New York to England. Orlando and Sean arrive at JFK comfortably early, but then they end up almost missing their boarding call. Slightly out of breath, they hand their tickets to someone from airport security who barely manages to hide her exasperation. Orlando makes Bambi eyes and gestures reprovingly at the bags dangling from Sean’s wrist.

“Your fault,” Sean contradicts him with a shake of his head. “There are times when you make nice with the chauffeur, and the parking lot isn’t one of them. No matter that he was Italian, and you suspected mob ties.”

The security person is obviously jaded enough to not care one way or the other. She lets them through and immediately turns to the next passengers. Orlando, however, gapes at Sean.

“Your fault,” Sean repeats. Or prompts.

“Excuse me?” Orlando protests. “I practically had to carry you out of the duty free zone!” 

“There is money. Spend it, spend it more.”

“Yes, Shakespeare. On whiskey. _You_ , however, bought perfume and aftershave. In gallons.”

“What can I say? _I_ like to smell nice.”

“Did you just insinuate that I stink?”

“I’m too classy for that.”

“If I took a survey right now, would the result be that I reek? No, it wouldn’t. And why is that?”

“Because you trick people.”

“Because I shower regularly. Like three hours ago. You were there. – And how exactly do I trick people?”

“By smiling at them.”

Orlando shakes his head, but the grin is now a permanent fixture on his face.

“The point is, I banked on having a bit of a choice for my in-flight drinking, and this is what you do to me? Perfume?”

“If you want, I’ll share my Grey Vetiver with you. Has a strong nutmeg finish.”

“Hilarious, Sean. Tom Ford or not, I don’t drink cologne.”

Orlando gives Sean a wary look while they wait in line to get seated. It’s well warranted because Orlando has the distinct impression that Sean is sober. There’s just something particularly disconcerting about that thought. It’s even more distressing that they have to _wait in line_ in the first place. Sean booked them economy class seats. Sean apparently has issues.

However, even before they take-off, Orlando is deep in conversation with a woman in the row in front of them. The woman claims she very nearly succeeded smuggling in her terrier. She nearly got away with it until the pup tried to bite the passport controller. Orlando doesn’t believe the story for a second which doesn’t diminish his amusement. He doesn’t even mind that the overweight businessman on his other side is practically sitting on his lap and snoring loudly.

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, with New York probably still in spitting distance, Sean deeply, deeply regrets his booking choice as well as his sobriety. His flight anxiety catches up with him with a vengeance. Orlando interrupts his conversation with the terrier smuggler in order to eye him with mild concern.

“Shall I ask the flight attendant for a glass of milk for you?” 

“What?”

“It’s said to be calming.” 

Orlando tries to school his face to be fittingly soothing, but as per usual Sean chooses to see something else there. He tilts his head and half-smirks. 

“There are other means of comfort and distraction.” 

“Yeah, I know that,” Orlando says. He leans a little closer and raises his hand to his mouth, whispering, “But we are in a rather public place. I doubt that’s suitable.”

“I meant whiskey, Lando.”

“No, really? Are you saying that Calvin Klein’s Obsession is of no help here?”

“Hilarious.”

Sean growls at Orlando, but it doesn’t elicit Orlando’s usual chuckle but instead a slightly worried look. Sean has a plastic cup of barely tolerable scotch in his hand two minutes later. He drinks it gratefully while Orlando obviously tries to charm the stewardess’s panties off just because he can, and there is nothing compelling in the in-flight entertainment programme.

They land in Heathrow and take the connecting flight to Sheffield. Only once they are on solid ground again and planning to stay there, Sean’s mood brightens considerably. 

During their cab ride to his parents’ house, Sean points out the local sights. There is, for instance, the pub where he drank whisky for the first time. Then they pass the pub where he first got a hand job in the Gents. Just around the corner, there is the pub where he won a dart tournament. Sean, in transpires, spent a great deal of his childhood in public houses. 

Sean also claims that he was madly in love with the woman they nearly run over at a crossing. She waves her umbrella furiously at him, or possibly the careless taxi driver. Orlando peers at her with interest, then at Sean.

“She looked a bit mental, didn’t she?”

Sean looks rather intrigued. Contemplatively, he raises his hand to his mouth, his thumb rubbing his lower lip.

“You reckon?” 

“Absolutely. I think there was foam around her mouth.”

Sean licks his lips but even that does a poor job of hiding his grin.

“Now that you mention it.”

“Be straight with me, Sean. Is that the result of your thorough loving?”

“No. She already was loony when I met her.” 

“Was she really?”

“I only ever fall for crazy people. That or drunkards.”

Orlando laughs out loud and pats Sean’s knee.

“Tell me, does that come from the questionable amount of time your underage self spent in drinking establishments?”

“Remind me to tell you the story about the hooker in the ‘White Fox’ on my seventeenth birthday.”

Orlando turns the patting of his hand into a caressing stroke up Sean’s thigh.

“Class is something you can’t buy.” 

All in all, their cabbie looks relieved when he drops them off at Sean’s parents’ house. It’s the same house they’ve lived in for over half a century, the same place Sean grew up in. The rose bushes in the front yard are the same ones that Sean still wants Orlando’s gardener to plant. The only fairly new addition to the house is a conservatory, and the walls have just recently been whitewashed again.

Orlando has been here a couple of times, and it’s a couple of times now that he has witnessed what he thinks a slightly strange ritual. As a Southerner and the product of public school upbringing, Orlando has his theories about the North as well as stately funded education. But Sean’s way of greeting his parents, that’s probably really just Sean being a bit cracked in the head.

Once Sean let them into the house, he leaves his suitcase and his coat on the floor in the hallway and all but tiptoes into the kitchen. There he finds his mother Rita and without warning hugs her from behind, squeezes her and lifts her off the ground, generally scaring the living shit out of her. Every time they visit, Sean does this. 

For a second she struggles in his embrace and very nearly hits him over the head with the kettle she is holding. The next moment though, she has her arms slung around his neck, and she kisses his cheeks and calls him ‘my boy’ like he was five years old, not fifty-something. It’s rather adorable.

Orlando watches the whole proceedings, leaning in the doorway of the kitchen and swears one day he will have a camera ready. He only steps into the room when Rita is safely on the ground again and waving him in. 

He is still holding the large plastic bags from duty free that Sean pushed into his hands. And of course it’s the first thing Sean’s Dad’s eyes fix on when he enters the room through the veranda door. Orlando and Sean may have been partying a little hard the last time they were here. Orlando only remembers scrapbook snippets of that weekend. It’s not that surprising that Brian gives Orlando and his duty free bags a slightly sceptical look. Orlando hurries to explain that it’s just perfumes they bought. Sean says that Orlando should stop lying, no one believes him anyway. Orlando gapes at Sean, and Rita unsuccessfully hides her grin. 

They sit down for tea in the living room, and Brian tells them about the plans of further development of his steel welding business. Sean is interested instantly, like he always is when someone is enthusiastic about work. 

Orlando has seen him get soaking wet during a phone conversation with his broker in the park, umbrella completely forgotten in his other hand; he witnessed Sean coming from a ten hour conference, only to continue working through the night on a flight, never even wasting a thought on food or sleep. 

Sean and his father finish each other’s sentences for a good ten minutes. It’s obvious from whom Sean got the resolve. 

Just like on previous occasions, Rita grows a little fidgety after a while, and for a moment Orlando wonders why that is. Maybe she thinks it irritating, talking about work day in and day out, or maybe it’s because her son’s financial success is so much greater than the (already considerable) one of her husband. Maybe that makes things awkward. But then, maybe Orlando is just imagining things. After all, every conversation in _his_ family is odd to different degrees, and money is hardly ever the reason for it. 

Orlando gets a little side-tracked by thinking about his last family get-together and the way his Cousin Jasper nearly took his Cousin Sebastian’s eye out with a fork. It was an accident, they all later agreed on, but Orlando still thinks Jasper should lay off the books about the Roundheads. 

When Orlando returns to the conversation in the Bean’s sitting room, Rita is in the middle of telling them how she bullied half the town to partake in the charity bazaar this weekend. Both Brian and Sean look properly impressed, and so is Orlando. If Rita and his Aunt Isobel ever met, they could take over the country, one good will event at a time.

Later in the afternoon, Sean’s father disappears to the pub, and Sean disappears into the backyard. It leaves Orlando and Rita discussing the art of persuasion and deception, as per usual. Sean has his clear-headedness from her, his quick wit as well. And every time they look at old family albums – by now Orlando has dropped all pretence and just asks for it straight out – Rita tells him stories about Sean’s childhood that have to be at least completely exaggerated. Like that time when he set parts of the local school on fire. Like that time when he singlehandedly caught the thieves that stole from the neighbour’s backyard. 

This time, Orlando tells her about the business with the stolen wedding ring, and okay, he adds a murder or two to the tale. Rita looks slightly concerned by the end of the story and asks him whether he and Sean are looking to do any sleuthing while they are here. Because there is nothing at all to sleuth in Handsworth, she claims. Orlando of course can’t and won’t believe that.

When Orlando joins Sean in the backyard a little while later, Sean is in the middle of his favourite pastime. Lazing about. He has changed from his comfortable but still rather fancy travelling outfit into an old football jersey, a knotty cardigan and slightly too short trousers. He hung up the hammock between two apple trees, ostensibly to read in it. But when Orlando finds him, he already uses his dime novel to cover his face against the sun. Orlando wakes him from his nap by making a bit of a racket with a sun chair. It isn’t even completely intentional because the darn thing just won’t do his bidding. 

While he struggles with the evilness of the deck chair, several people walk past. Every single one of them apparently knows Sean since early childhood and greets him with varying degrees of warmth. Orlando forgets to hate on the deck chair because he’s having far too good a time watching Sean get out of his hammock again and again in order to make small talk. 

First he exchanges pleasantries with the chubby pub owner Graham Murray, and Sean’s accent grows a little stronger when he chats with him. The man has barely left, when Sean has to rise again (and stand up straight this time) because his old school teacher Mrs. Peevy spots him from behind the fence. After listening to their brief conversation, Orlando thinks that Rita’s story about school related arson suddenly gains a lot of credibility. 

The second she walks away and Sean has returned to his hammock, Orlando can’t help but laugh at him. Sean still looks like he has an appointment with the headmaster later on and now demonstratively raises his dime novel again. 

Orlando is still chuckling when he finally manages to erect his deck chair. He sits down in it with a sigh of contentment, but the satisfaction lasts all but five seconds because that is when the chair folds in on itself. Orlando finds himself lying on the grass. Even from down there, he can see Sean’s shoulders quivering with silent laughter. He sighs and tries to pull himself up again by gripping the side of the hammock. He underestimates his strength a little because the hammock takes a forceful swing to the left and capsizes. With a yelp, Sean falls out and lands half on the grass, half on top of Orlando. 

“Is that the way to treat people these days?” Sean asks.

“I’m modelling my behaviour after your example. Your mother brought you up right. Perfect host, you are.” 

“‘If it were not for guests, all houses would be graves.’”

Orlando leans up and grins when Sean gently pushes him back down.

“I approve of the morbidity of that.”

“Thought you might. So, how do _you_ treat guests then?”

“Well, first of all, I haven’t thought of you as a guest since – well, I think I never really have.”

Sean raises his brows.

“What was I then, when we first met?”

Orlando shifts a little, more of his chest touching Sean’s now. He tilts his head to the side, thinks about it for a moment.

“Long lost piece of the puzzle?” he then offers.

“Oh, that sounds like you,” Sean says as his hand strokes up Orlando’s arm. “Charmingly romantic. And imminently practical at the same time.”

“How’s that practical?”

Sean shrugs.

“It saves you the bother of chivalry? And if I recall correctly, I even gave you a tour of my place, the first time you visited.” 

“Yeah, showed me your kitchen and the roof terrace.”

“Poured you a drink even.”

Orlando idly strokes the line of Sean’s neck with the backs of his fingers. He licks his lips, recalling that memory. 

“Glenkinchie 1975. I remember. Lovely.”

“Quite.”

“You ended it in the bedroom, the tour.”

Sean chuckles warmly.

“Oh, I could’ve shown you plenty more rooms. _You_ claimed you weren’t interested.”

They are both grinning broadly now, there faces merely inches apart. Orlando thinks that this is just the perfect opportunity for a lazy afternoon snog. 

Of course that’s when they get interrupted by Sean’s Mom. She calls for Sean to help her with something, and with a sigh Sean gets up. 

When he reappears in the garden, naturally Orlando has taken over the hammock as well as the dime novel. Sean looks down at him like he’s contemplating copying Orlando’s earlier move. Luckily for Orlando, once again someone familiar walks past the fence and greets Sean. 

This time it is a quite beautiful blond woman about Sean’s age. Both to Orlando’s amusement as well as to Sean’s apparent bafflement, Sean is almost nervous around her. Granted, it might have something to do with her ‘first year of drama school’ approach to the conversation. It’s hard to keep up with so many words _and_ exuberant gestures at the same time, Orlando guesses.

While Sean continues being a little befuddled by her demonstration of over-acting, someone honks on the street. In the cabriolet, a man around Orlando’s age looks ostentatiously edgy and waves at the woman. Under normal circumstances, Orlando would enquire who the impatient driver was, but right now he is a bit too occupied watching Sean being flustered. Sean’s sole part in the conversation with the woman seems to consist of blinking rapidly. 

When Sean can’t even manage an answer to the question ‘What brings you here’, Orlando takes pity on him and gets out of the hammock. The woman turns her attention from Sean to Orlando. Sean scratches the back of his neck, then remembers his manners.

“Lando, this is Charlotte Grey.”

“Playground friend of yours?” Orlando guesses.

“Actually, she was the first girl I went out with.”

“What a coincidence.” Orlando smiles pleasantly, and turning to Charlotte, he says, “Sean’s here because of a big case, did he already tell you? He turned sleuth, you know.”

Sean is back to looking slightly perplexed, Charlotte however seems quite intrigued.

“Oh yes, and he is quite successful,” Orlando continues, partly because it’s true. Partly because he doesn’t like the way she just walked all over Sean, partly because he won’t pass an opportunity to embellish the truth. “He just solved a big jewellery theft. I was just telling Rita about it.” 

Before Orlando has the chance to go into more detail, the man in the car honks again. Charlotte, who now has a tigress’s leer on her face, bids a hasty goodbye. Sean looks like he is about to object, but before he has the words sorted in his mouth, Charlotte is in the car and off. Instead, Sean turns to Orlando, a look of horror on his face. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

“Painted you in a favourable light for your old flame? I thought you’d appreciate it. You usually do.”

“Well, there’s one thing you need to know about Charlotte.”

Orlando sits back down in the hammock.

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yeah. Why do you think I get tongue-tied around her?”

“Because you’re secretly shy? Because she talks so fast that it is impossible to get a word in?”

Sean nods and tries to look serious.

“Well, aside from those two obvious reasons, Charlotte is the most terrible gossip.”

“You don’t say.” 

“And you know what that translates to in the day and age of the internet?” 

Orlando lies back in the hammock and picks the dime novel up again.

“Well, in this case: Whoops.” 

They spend a very pleasant evening with Sean’s parents. The rabbit stew Brian makes for dinner is excellent (as it should be, Sean says to Orlando later, since it is the only thing his Dad is able to cook). And once again Rita demonstrates that she is a better chess player than Sean and Orlando, even when they join forces. Orlando has no idea how Sean turned out to be such a bad loser; given his mother’s skills, he should have gotten a lot of practice while growing up. 

Early the next morning, Orlando lets Sean sleep and explores the neighbourhood. He finds a delightful bakery and a pub that is open already. What makes his morning, however, is a tiny art gallery with the most hideous of paintings. He wanders in because Sean appreciates what he claims is ‘modern art’, and Orlando (brought up on proper good taste) has always found that somewhat suspicious. He is delighted to spot a painting picturing one of the pubs that Sean told him about the day before. It’s done in thick layers of oily paint, and it’s as revolting as they come. In short, it’s the perfect birthday present for Sean. 

The slightly muddle-headed gallery owner is reluctant to part with such a fine specimen of awful taste. Orlando puts it down to his obvious short-sightedness that at first, he seems immune to Orlando’s charm, but he still walks out with the wrapped up painting not five minutes later. On the way out, he nearly collides with a very purposeful looking young woman wearing the most interesting frilly hat. While she purposely strides towards the counter, Orlando very nearly asks her for it. It would go ever so nicely with his painting, and Sean would be delighted, no doubt.

When he comes home, Sean and his parents are in the sitting room and just had a second breakfast. Sean looks up from his shiny new tablet when Orlando greets them.

“First time I end up in the gossip pages because of you.”

“Now, that’s not exactly true.”

Both Brian and Rita look at him with a mixture of amusement and slight apprehension. Orlando makes a placating gesture.

“There was the New Year’s bash last year. The dancing got a bit out of hand.”

“Jitterbug makes for good pictures,” Sean agrees. 

In response, Orlando does a triple step and a turn. Sean laughs and shakes his head. Orlando mock bows, then sits down on the sofa next to him.

“It’s not still those pictures, though, is it?”

Sean raises his tablet as if reading from the display, but his eyes never leave Orlando’s.

“‘Handsworth’s very own crime syndicate at work? Billionaire Bean home for expert sleuthing!’”

Orlando snorts. Then he looks at Sean, Rita, and Brian, and he frowns.

“You’re serious?”

Sean arches his eyebrows and nods.

“You remember what you told Charlotte?”

“I didn’t say any of that.”

“No, but that’s what she made of it on her webpage. Your fault.”

Orlando takes the tablet from Sean’s hand and skims through the article and the reader responses.

“I’m not sure I’m inclined to agree with you. I’m pretty certain _you_ were the one who turned her into a gossip to begin with.”

“I resent that.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” 

Further discussion is interrupted by a ring on the door. Sean goes to answer it and is surprised to find a stranger on the doorstep. Sean’s surprise doubles when the man skips the introduction entirely but instead whispers urgently that he needs to speak to Billionaire Bean. 

Before Sean can tell him that he hardly ever goes by that name, however, the man collapses. Rita, Brian, and Orlando rush towards the door now. Orlando (who is always looking for such things) instantly points out the very tiny but apparently very lethal bullet hole in the stranger’s back. Sean immediately dashes out into the yard to look for the shooter. Orlando follows on his heels, shouting after him that there very well might be more bullets where that first one came from. 

There is no more shooting, and they don’t find a smoking gun, either. They do, however, come across someone exceedingly suspicious in the shrubbery – pub owner Graham Murray. Instantly Orlando politely requests that he hands over his weapon and surrenders. Murray just looks at him stupidly. Sean takes him by the arm and instead of enquiring what in heaven’s name he is doing in his parents’ driveway, he just invites him to join them and the dead man in their hallway. 

Murray helpfully declares the unannounced visitor dead on sight. Orlando enquires whether that is a regular occurrence over here, complete strangers passing in Bean’s hallway. Brian says that this man isn’t really a stranger. His name is Matt Buckner, and he works at Webster Welding. 

The police arrive only minutes later, at the same time as the coroner. The DI investigating this case as well as the coroner of course once again are old acquaintances of Sean’s; he played football with them in a pub team. Coroner Boroughs seconds pub owner Murray’s verdict. Matt Buckner is now officially dead. 

DI Colt suspects that poor Buckner wasn’t even the intended victim but Sean himself – both the sleuthing as well as the billionaire status are good motives. Naturally, Orlando makes it onto the list of suspects. Not that this surprises him all that much, he likes to carry around a bank statement of his own for exactly that reason. He has been suspected of golddigging as often as Sean has been called an upstart. 

With that entertaining bit of slanderous insinuations once again out of the way, Rita helpfully offers Sean’s sleuthing services to Colt. Brian offers tea to everyone. Orlando is very upset about the lack of whiskey in this household and once again contemplates drinking Sean’s duty free perfume instead.

The minute the coroner leaves with the body, DI Colt invites Sean (and by proxy Orlando) to tag along to Webster Welding, Bruckner’s place of employment. Once there, Colt leaves them in the lobby, however. Orlando chats up one of the office helps the moment the inspector is out of sight. Of course she has read the forum discussion on Sean’s sleuthing ways and is more than glad to help Orlando out. From her, Orlando (and by proxy, Sean) learns that Buckner, while a sleazebag, was very popular with the ladies. Just last week he was in a fistfight with an unnamed man, allegedly over someone called Bernice. Or maybe it was Charlotte, that woman from the website. Orlando is thrilled. Sean points out that this kind of information seems very convenient indeed. Orlando ignores him.

When Colt returns, he tells Sean that he has just been knocked out cold by intruders in Webster’s office. Sean seems very excited about that, Orlando elbows him before it shows too obviously. Nevertheless, Colt rolls his eyes and says that of course no one attacked him. Sean’s delight dims down considerably. His spirits rise a little, however, when Colt says that Buckner didn’t work here as a welder. He was a painter, hired to paint a portrait of Webster himself who, according to Colt, is a bit full of himself and thinks that Webster Welding will take over the world within the next fortnight or something. Sean rubs his hands, just like when he’s looking at the price of gold. Orlando points out that a man just died. Sean says that he is truly sorry about that, but he can’t let that ruin the thrill of the chase, now, can he. 

The rest of the day passes in a fashion that shouldn’t surprise anyone, least of all Orlando. Once Sean has licked blood, he is worse than a dog with a bone – fiercer, more determined, and potentially even more dangerous. He calls old friends, talks to a myriad of people, more or less accidentally threatens half of them into confessing things not in the least relevant to their case. He does enough investigating in the course of a couple of hours to make Orlando’s head spin. 

Late in the evening, Orlando emerges from the bathroom in his pyjama bottoms and finds Sean sitting on the edge of the bed. He has kicked off his shoes, but that’s how far he has gotten before something on his tablet caught his attention again. Orlando watches him from the doorway for a moment, part of him hoping on a free show despite the odds. Instead of undressing further, Sean turns his head around. His frown of concentration disappears, and Orlando humbly puts that down to his own state of undressing. Sean nods at his tablet and the handful of papers on the bed next to him.

“I should probably be a little less thrilled about this.” 

“You, frightened by your own enthusiasm? That’s a first.” 

“Like someone pointed out to me today, a man died,” Sean says reasonably.

Orlando shrugs and sits himself down next to Sean. He glances at Sean’s neat handwriting on all the papers.

“You’re doing all you can to solve this. It’s honourable.”

Sean shuffles the papers together and puts them on the nightstand.

“My morbid fascination is really just nobility in disguise?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. There’s a body in my parents’ hallway, and I’m excited about it.”

“I get high on stuff like that all the time.”

“Hardly makes it better.”

Orlando elbows Sean in response. Instead of pulling away from him, Sean shifts closer and bumps his shoulder against Orlando’s. 

“Well, you didn’t know Buckner,” Orlando says. “I mean, you talked to him for five seconds before he was shot. Might as well be a fictional character. Why should you feel remorse?” 

Sean looks unconvinced.

“That’s pretty much the opposite of what you said ten seconds ago.”

Orlando considers this for a moment and has to admit that Sean is not wrong. Sean can see this conclusion on his face, apparently, because he laughs quietly. Orlando sighs and makes a dismissive gesture.

“Whatever. Fact is that a bit of excitement about a chase won’t change who you are.” He looks Sean in the eyes again, smiles. “Or how I feel about you.”

Sean leans in and kisses the spot right below Orlando’s ear.

“When did you become so –“

“Sagacious?” 

“Sly.”

“Must be all the fortune cookies I ate.”

Sean kisses him again, and Orlando tilts his head to the side to allow him better access. He exhales with a pleased little hum when Sean accepts the invitation and nuzzles his neck, then his shoulder, his hand loosely resting on Orlando’s thigh. It’s the return of Orlando’s equilibrium, the one that only ever wavers when something is bothering Sean. It’s this quiet little thing, this slow warmth spreading on his skin from wherever Sean’s lips touch. 

“I got something for you, by the way,” Orlando says.

He can feel Sean smiling against his skin, smirking dirtily more like.

“And it’s not even my birthday yet.”

“It’s close enough, and it’s not what you think. Come on, close your eyes.”

Sean clucks his tongue but compliantly does as he is told. Orlando gets up from the bed to retrieve the painting he bought. Sean patiently waits, his eyes closed and his hands folded in his lap, and Orlando gets side tracked. He puts the painting down on the bed and crouches down in front of Sean. The smile that has been lingering on Sean’s lips grows broader when Orlando’s hands cup his knees and slide up a little. Orlando leans in, tilts his head and kisses him, and Sean immediately responds. 

The kiss starts out soft and slow. They laugh quietly when it takes them all of ten seconds before Sean starts fighting Orlando for the upper hand. Sean always does this, and Orlando always pretends to give in for a while. Sean reels him in, and his hand in Orlando’s neck pulls Orlando with him as he sinks back onto the bed. Orlando follows happily, straddles Sean’s thighs, and deepens the kiss as Sean strokes down his shoulders, hands lingering in the small of his back, on the back of his thigh. 

Orlando feels Sean tensing under him, tell-tale sign that he is about to flip them over, and he remembers the painting that would be crushed under the impact. With his hand against Sean’s chest, he keeps him from pushing up and breaks the kiss. Sean licks his lips, then opens his eyes, and the look in them makes Orlando want to continue this instantly, sod the painting. Sean hums, indicating his appreciation.

“That it?” Sean asks, and licks his lips again, this time for show. “I like it.”

“Good to know.” 

Orlando cups Sean’s jaw with his hand and brushes his thumb over Sean’s chin. For a moment, he forgets that this wasn’t what he intended to do. But then he sits back in Sean’s lap, the frame bumps against his knee, and he reaches for it. He lifts it up for Sean to see, and in a passable imitation of Bob Barker, he announces, 

“But your real price today is – this fine-looking painting!” 

Sean draws his hands from where they rested on Orlando’s thighs in order to push himself up. He considers the painting for a long moment, then purses his lips.

“Even Paint-by-numbers is too much of a challenge for some people.”

“Aw, but I thought you’d like it.” Orlando laughs and tilts the canvas a little, so he can look at it as well. “Okay, it lacks a bit in technique and execution, and that bloke in the foreground there, he looks like his neck is broken. But it features one of the pubs you showed me on the way here.”

Sean nods slowly.

“You know what? I’ll hang it over the bed. Will always remind me of Mindy, Mandy, or whatever her name was. The girl I shagged in that pub.”

He laughs when Orlando unceremoniously drops the painting on the floor and leans over Sean again.

“I get you something, and you mock me? Is that the appreciation gifts deserve?”

“I appreciated the first half of it plenty. Wouldn’t mind a repetition either.” 

Orlando drops a kiss onto Sean’s mouth, and another, and another. Against Orlando’s lips, Sean says,

“That painting though, you should fast-forward it to my Mum’s bazaar.”

“How about I do that with you one day as well? Auction you off when I’m tired of you?”

Sean growls and grips Orlando’s chin to keep him from pulling away again. Orlando laughs and does so anyway, just to have Sean reversing their position with one swift move. Sean gets settled between Orlando’s legs and looks pretty pleased with himself.

“I reckon I’d go for a fairly decent price.”

Orlando arches his brows but doesn’t dispute that. Instead he starts undoing the buttons on Sean’s shirt.

“Oh, does that mean I could finally afford that Mini Cooper I have my eyes on?”

“You meant to say Bentley.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I meant the other thing, the tiny one. That alright with you?”

Sean shrugs off his shirt, and with Orlando’s help pulls his undershirt over his head as well.

“Sure. Though, when I die, I expect you to let yourself get buried alive with me.”

“You mean like a slave with his pharaoh? That’s unassuming.”

Sean just hums noncommittally, fingers tracing Orlando’s collar bone.

“How about some of that appreciation we were just discussing?”

As it is widely known, there are numerous ways to show aforementioned appreciation. Orlando and Sean go through quite a few of them over the next two hours. 

In the morning, Orlando spots someone in the bushes again. He first asks Brian whether that is some sort of local sport he wasn’t aware of, or whether it’s just something pub owners do during their off-hours. Because once again it is Graham Murray, chubby bar tender and childhood mate of Sean’s. Rita finds him rather endearing but still thinks him suspicious. Sean tells her to tail him, if that makes her feel better. Rita calls her son silly, but of course Orlando thinks that is a brilliant suggestion.

While Orlando is off sleuthing, Sean reacquaints himself with the neighbourhood. He gets as far as the next street corner where he discovers the new bakery. It’s just his fucking luck that he runs into Charlotte there, and she invites him to breakfast. The bakery has an impressive array of French pastries to offer, so who is he to turn down such an invitation? 

Happily sipping from his freshly brewed café au lait in between bites, he enjoys the most delicious piece of crêpe cake with coffee cream. Charlotte talks, and he hums in agreement when it seems appropriate. A couple of times (particularly when she licks cream of her fork) he pays more attention to her mouth and the tip of her tongue. But generally speaking, he is far more interested in the exquisite taste of the cherry-almond clafoutis and the strawberry tart than in her gossip. 

However, as he proceeds to still warm croissants, he politely asks her to stop spreading gossip about _him_. Charlotte doesn’t promise anything but instead reminisces about a handful of anecdotes of their time at school together. Like the times they snuck out for a cigarette, the time they almost stole a car together, and the time they shagged on the backseat of someone else’s car. 

Now, numerous similar entertaining stories involving Orlando and Sean instantly spring to Sean’s mind. But Sean doesn’t care much about reading about them on the internet the next day. So he keeps his mouth shut, lets her continue and decides to try the caramel cream filled beignets next. Only when he is done with those and feels that a short break is in order, he when he asks about her involvement with Matt Buckner. 

She turns from the fountain of information she was a second ago, into the Arctic ice. She excuses herself immediately.

When Orlando returns to the Bean estate not much after Sean, his feet are sore. He tells Sean in detail about Graham Murray’s exceedingly suspicious behaviour. Murray led him through several stores for women’s underwear, a seedy nightclub and a barber shop. Sean agrees that all of this is very suspicious indeed; Orlando might very well be onto something. Orlando tells him to shut up and listen. After all, the most interesting part isn’t the tailing of Murray but a chat he had in midst of pink thongs. 

“Oh, you had time to flirt then?” Sean asks with amusement tinging his voice. 

A slow smile dawns on Orlando’s face.

“Please, I always have time to flirt. In that first underwear store I got hit on four times.” 

“Probably security guards trying to find out what a bloke was doing in the bra department.” 

“I can tell the difference between getting checked out and getting thrown out, thank you. I didn’t want to tell you about the flirts –“ 

“Because they make me jealous?” 

Orlando glares at Sean. As per usual, it doesn’t have the desired effect. He probably should work on his glare of doom, make it a little less similar to his smouldering come hither look. Sean always seems to mix them up. 

“Anyway, it’s not about the flirts. Someone offered me money.” 

“To work as an underwear model? I can see that.” 

“Sean, don’t be a short-sighted tight-rope act. Money for the painting.” 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to a painting of you in your delicates. We could hang it in the bedroom in London. That way I don’t have to go through the trouble of imaging you when you’re not there.” 

Being absent from Sean’s side has become a bit of a foreign concept to Orlando over the last years. And the way Sean looks at him now suggests his imagination is just fine anyway. Still, Orlando nods amicably.

“Duly noted for your next birthday. But I was referring to the painting of the pub I brought you. Some woman offered to triple what I paid for it.”

“Did you take the deal and invested the money in something sexy?”

“You mean like that sleek black Simon Spurr? No, I didn’t. I already gave the painting to your mother to sell at the bazaar.”

“’s that mean I get to take you dancing?”

“And the evening is looking bright all of a sudden.”

The dance-and-bazaar turns out to be quite the party. It raises money not only by selling questionable donated stuff but also dances with volunteering women. Sean runs into Charlotte again who loudly complains about Bill Burroughs’s two left feet. And she has him so flustered again that he buys all of her dance tickets. It’s for a good cause, he explains to Orlando. 

The moment she has stormed off, Coroner Boroughs steps up to Sean to shake his hand and thank him for saving him from Charlotte. As a sign of his gratitude he even shares the results of Matt Buckner’s autopsy with him.

Orlando really wants to listen, but even more, he wants to follow in Sean’s footsteps and do something charitable. Mainly that translates to buying loads of completely hideous crap for Sean’s loft in London – also naturally just because it’s for a good cause. He is surprised to discover that the pub painting has been sold already. The buyer conveniently lives in the hotel which definitely catches Orlando’s interest. He has to find out why everyone suddenly seems to want this godawful painting.

He finds Sean again and pushes the porcelain squirrel he just acquired into his arms. Sean puts the squirrel down and says that he is coming with. Orlando pushes him into the arms of a random but eager looking elderly lady. He hands her all the dance tickets Sean previously bought, and she looks positively radiant. Before Sean can protest, the lady drags him off to the dance floor, leaving Orlando to investigate. 

Staggering backwards, Sean can barely keep himself from flipping Orlando off. Then he nearly loses his balance when the elderly lady manhandles him into a foxtrot.

After enquiring at the reception, Orlando takes the elevator to the room of the new owner of the suspiciously popular painting. The door to the suite is ajar, and when he sneaks in, he finds the blond woman unconscious on the plush white rug. The window is open, curtains billowing, and of course Orlando rushes to it straightaway. A potential chase through back alleys is far more appealing than having to search for smelling salts. But it’s too dark outside for him to spot anyone. 

With a sigh of regret he turns his attention back to the still unconscious blonde. He is mildly surprised to recognize her as the woman with the frilly hat from the art store. She is petite enough to easily be picked up from the floor, and Orlando does so and gently places her on the bed. 

It’s at that moment that Sean, obviously slightly fuzzy headed from all the twisting and turning, appears in the open doorway. 

“Long runs the fox,” he comments the picture in front of him. 

Orlando looks down at the woman in his arms. He concedes that the position he is in could be described as compromising. 

“What am I found guilty of? Straying, or killing?”

“Attempted necrophilia.”

The woman groans, hopefully to indicate that she is still alive and not that she thinks the suggestion attractive. Orlando pulls a face and takes a step back.

For the second time in two days, they call the police and an ambulance. The paramedics have already gone again, taking the woman with them, when Sean and Orlando discover the pub painting. The blonde hid it in the best of hiding spaces, she just hung it on the wall. They stand in front of it in silence for a good long while. Sean offers to tell Orlando the story of Mindy or probably Mandy and her soft hands. Orlando offers to auction Sean off to the foxtrot lady.

They retire to Sean’s parents’ house and both spend the evening brooding. Orlando sits on the bed with the painting he conveniently nicked. He ponders whether it hides any other hints to dark secrets, ones that aren’t named Mindy or Mandy, and possibly worth a murder. Sean sits by the window, completely engulfed in an epic internet research. Orlando starts inspecting the wooden frame, searching for hidden compartments. Sean keeps quoting random bits about guns, trajectories and bullet calibres. Synched up as they are, they both have their epiphanies at the same time, Orlando announces his with an almost reverently whispered ‘Eureka’, Sean’s comes with a muttered ‘Bloody hell’.

The next day is Sean’s birthday. Early in the morning, Sean calls DI Colt and invites him over for breakfast and a show-and-tell. Brian and Rita sing ‘Happy Birthday’, and Orlando now knows for a fact that Sean has his unique approach to musicality from them. Sean gets distracted from their murder when the birthday cake is brought in, and happily lets Orlando start with his findings. Orlando waits until Sean has blown out the candles and everyone (including DI Colt) has a piece of cake. 

Then he borrows nail polish remover from Rita and pours it generously over the pub painting. To the eyes his appropriately astonished audience, the low quality paint dissolves and reveals another image entirely. Instead of the image of a pub, the frame now surrounds the very neat lines of blueprints. Brian is the first one to recognise them for what they are, detailed plans of ground breaking welding machinery. Presumably they are Webster’s, Orlando proposes with a shrug, probably stolen during one of the portrait sessions, and expertly hidden under cheap paint. Fine case of industrial espionage; ergo motive. 

Sean is done with his second piece of cake just in time to reveal the second half. He dabs his mouth with a napkin, pours himself another cup of tea, and says that he doubts that a .45 could leave such damage on a body over a distance. According to the coroner’s report the bullet supposedly entered Buckner’s back through the large left rhomboid, punctured the posterior lobe of the left lung and the lower lobe of the right, lacerating the parenchyma, grazing the aorta and lodging against the 12th right costal rib. 

Rita and Brian look at him with slightly wide eyes, and Orlando deducts that they find it slightly disconcerting that Sean learned the entire report by heart. Orlando thinks it hot, and that probably _is_ marginally alarming. 

As per usual, Sean can apparently read the look on Orlando’s face without trouble because he winks at him before he continues. If the autopsy report was accurate, he continues, their best bet would be a little murdering gremlin, hanging from the drainpipe. Nothing else could explain the angle, and the damage done with that kind of calibre. So, the autopsy report can’t possibly be truthful.

Colt looks back and forth between Sean and Orlando and seems at a loss for words. Brian puts the stolen blueprint into his lap. Rita suggests he’d have a firm chat with Coroner Burroughs. Orlando helps himself to a piece of cake. Sean announces now that this is done, he wouldn’t mind some birthday presents.

 

“And this concludes the mystery of the deadly painting. The end.” 

Orlando makes waving gesture; the bastard child of a bow. After this, he empties his tumbler with a flourish and leans back in his comfortable seat next to Sean’s. 

There very few passengers sharing the First Class with them on this flight from New York to England. The lights are dimmed, the midnight snack has been served long ago. A bloke on the other side of the aisle is watching TV, another is typing away on his laptop. But everyone else seems to be dozing or sleeping. Orlando is quiet for the first time in two hours, his features evened out for the first time in the soft cabin light.

For the first time in two hours, Sean consciously notices the continuous, dark rumbling noise of the plane’s powerful engines again. He understands how their sound can lull people in. But he isn’t too fond of flying, First Class or not. Even contemplating relaxation several feet above ground is as ridiculous a concept as bringing popcorn to a battlefield. 

Now that Orlando stopped talking, Sean can’t help it. He immediately wishes himself to be on solid ground again, wishes himself to be back in the fictitious version of Sheffield Orlando’s words created for him. 

He props his elbow on his knee and looks expectantly at Orlando. 

“That’s it?” he asks, or prompts rather. “Seriously, that’s the end?”

Orlando tilts his head and looks at him again. Effortlessly handsome as ever. Sean doubts that even the most severe of turbulences could elicit more than mild curiosity from him. The left corner of Orlando’s mouth curves upward, and his voice is even quieter than before now.

“Well, there is another version. Director’s cut for mature audiences, if you will.”

Sean copies Orlando’s secretive tone of voice.

“Let’s hear that then.”

“I don’t think this is the place for it.”

“Didn’t stop you before.”

“Come on, none of that was above parental guidance.”

“You had me fooled for a second, me as well as the stewardess.”

Orlando eyes automatically search for the flight attendant in question. When earlier, his story reached the conversation over the painting in the bedroom, she happened to be refilling Sean’s tumbler. Orlando’s descriptions were harmless enough, and his hand was really quite innocently resting on Sean’s knee. The tone of his voice, however, definitely wasn’t. Sean saw the blush on her cheeks. 

Even if it suited her, he looks pointedly at Orlando now. Orlando shrugs and concedes,

“She did look a bit flustered. You on the other hand were close to dozing off from time to time.”

“It’s a compliment, given the circumstances.”

“Yeah, I know, darling. So, what do you think?”

“Of the story?” Sean asks back. Orlando nods eagerly, but Sean weighs his head from side to side. “I don’t know. Some things in this particular tale of yours? If you repeat them to anyone else, I completely lose face.”

Orlando scrunches up his brows in a frown. Incredulity, there it is.

“Oh, and you’re so much better at it?”

“At least I got the facts right.” 

Orlando snorts and the gesture that goes with it, he probably inherited that from generations ordering servants around.

“When I let you tell your part of the investigation, you turned it into threeway porn.” 

“I did no such thing,” Sean protests laughingly.

“It featured you, some woman, and an indecent amount of pastry. In the middle of a French patisserie in the North of England. How is any of that realistic?”

Okay, Sean won’t argue with that. He can’t help but smirk either, recalling the look on Orlando’s face every time he said ‘strawberry tart’. Orlando licks his lips now, too, even as he tries his best to look a touch exasperated.

“You can kick her out, insert yourself,” Sean offers slowly, dropping his voice. “I’d even prefer that.” 

The crinkle on Orlando’s brow fights a losing battle. He shakes his head, a flirtatious twinkle in his dark eyes. 

“Aren’t you’re as sweet as crème caramel?”

“I like to think so.” 

“You know, still, next time I’ll do your parts of the dialogue as well. My Northern accent is perfectly alright, and as per usual, you kept running off track.”

But it’s how this game is played, how they’ve done it for years. Sean listens to Orlando’s stories, for however long Orlando wants to spin the yarn. But whenever Orlando allows him to do his own part of the dialogue, or just gives him an opening, he tries his damnest to derail the plot. It’s usually the easiest when Sean flirts with him. But Orlando also once introduced mermaids into a spy story, just because Sean mentioned, en passant, that he bought oysters. 

“Fine, fine,” Orlando says, “I’m open to constructive criticism. What is it you found wanting?”

“Well, for one, you forgot to reveal who the murderer is.”

Not even the littlest bit fazed by his faux pas, Orlando picks up his fedora from the small table to his right and puts it on, like he did every time he impersonated DI Colt. Accordingly, his voice drops a few notches when he informs Sean, 

“It was Bill Boroughs, from the pub team.”

“The coroner?” Sean asks back.

“Yeah. He tampered with the autopsy report. You said so yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s automatically the culprit. He could’ve been paid off.”

“By whom? Webster? Why?”

Sean shrugs and sips from his whiskey. Orlando looks at him like he does at the microwave when it contains popcorn. Sean lifts the hat from Orlando’s head and puts it on himself.

“Maybe he wanted him dead for trying to steal from him.” 

“Or maybe it was your Dad.”

“That’s ‘chip of the old block’ logic?”

“Which bit offends you?”

“Neither. Some interesting inside on my relationship with my parents, and on their marriage.”

“Ah, limited narrator, you know how it is. A lot of guesswork and connecting the dots.”

There’s this little bit of Orlando’s story that seems stuck between Sean’s teeth. It’s a bit bothersome. Sean regards Orlando silently until Orlando’s arched eyebrow prompts him to voice his thoughts.

“If that’s all there is to it.” Sean makes it sound like a question.

“I didn’t break in at your parents’ marriage counsellor and steal their file, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yes,” Sean says dryly. “That is of course exactly what I meant.”

Sean’s parents have been married for over half a century. It’s probably not their relationship that should fill drawers in some therapist’s cabinet. Sean has been divorced three times, three times it wasn’t Sean who filed for it. Once it took him two weeks until he even realised the papers were on his desk, buried under stock reports and contracts. He is not that person anymore, though. He isn’t. 

“Shall I ask the flight attendant for a glass of milk for you?” 

Orlando’s question startles Sean the littlest bit. He looks up from his tumbler, back at Orlando.

“What?”

Orlando leans back and gestures in the general direction of Sean’s forehead. 

“Your frown’s back. With you on a plane, it’s kind of an indicator to unpack the defibrillator.”

“No, I’m fine,” Sean assures him. Then he blurts out, “If I was fucking something up – with us, I mean, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Slight surprise registers on Orlando’s face, but that’s all, and it’s gone just as quickly. He nods easily.

“I would. And you aren’t.”

For someone who has such an open relationship with the reality, Orlando is astoundingly truthful and straightforward. Thanks to his notoriously blown up stories, people hardly ever trust his words. Sean isn’t people. He puts his glass down and shrugs.

“Alright.” He allows a smirk to slip back onto his face. “You’re quite the acute observer, you know. I mean, when you want to be.”

Orlando tips his hat as a gesture of thanks, but his voice is warm with humour.

“From brooding to patronizing in 0.2 flat? Impressive.”

“Hey, I have a right to be. The way you painted my childhood, I’m lucky that I didn’t end up in prison at some time or other.” 

Orlando laughs and shakes his head.

“Oh, come on, I think I really worked on that. The whole understatement thing to make a story more believable.”

“In the process, you mistook Handsworth for a small town in the Midwest in the 1940s. Just south of Anytown and Yourtown.”

Orlando snickers gleefully. He squeezes Sean’s hand and leans over to nudge Sean’s cheek with his nose before he steals his hat back. Physical affection always follows on the heels of delight; Sean knows it and would say far more ludicrous things because of it. 

“That’s hardly my fault, Sean. It’s been ages since we visited your parents. My memory is entitled to a bit of consolatory embroidery.” 

“Sheffield isn’t Sycamore Springs, trust me.”

“Whatever. What did you think of Graham Murray, the shrubbery fiend? That was a bit of a dead end, I guess. I have no idea, actually, what that friend of yours was doing in three lingerie stores. Bit dubious.”

“Nah, I liked him. He made for a good red herring. Besides, it’s comforting you think I had friends when I was a kid.”

Orlando makes a clucking sound, and the mock sympathy is all over his face now.

“Because you are such a lone wolf now.” 

“I quite liked the Charlotte character,” Sean offers because it’s pretty futile do argue that previous point.

Orlando snorts.

“Now, there’s a surprise.”

“She reminded me strongly of your Aunt Alethea.”

“Rather, now that you mention it. But that is your fault. You turned her into a prolific blogger.”

“I can hardly be held accountable for an innocent one-liner.”

“So, if it isn’t Charlotte, what’s your problem with the story? What is it that can potentially ruin your reputation?”

Sean copies Orlando’s move from earlier. He takes the hat from Orlando’s head, holds it in front of their faces, pretends hiding them from view. He leans in, his voice drops.

“You mean aside from the lack of explicit bedroom scenes?”

“You can give me detailed pointers once we’ve landed. What else?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Raising his hands in defeat, Orlando sighs affectedly.

“I don’t know, Sean. My blatant disregard for the value of human life, as demonstrated by us trading jokes over a dead man’s body?”

“You had us fly economy class.”

Orlando’s jaw drops, and it’s only partly acted.

“ _That_ is what you object to? Seriously?” 

He throws his hands in the air and sighs ostentatiously, and now it’s full on amateur theatre. Sean plays along. He makes a sound of disappointment, puts the hat down and shakes his head.

“And while I’m at it. I paid attention; you had me sober throughout the whole adventure. Come on, Lando. Who’s gonna believe that?”

“That was your own fault. You bought gallons of _cologne_ at JFK.”

“What can I say, I like to smell nice.”

Orlando has a scarily perfect memory when it comes to stories (particularly his own). Of course he notices the quote and plays along.

“Did you just imply that I stink?”

Sean replies leans closer, right up in Orlando’s space, which earns him a slightly arched eyebrow. 

“Once I’m done with you? Usually.”

Orlando chuckles.

“Flirt. Different from what you like to make people believe, I was actually brought up properly.” 

“Different from what I like to -?” Now Sean gapes at Orlando. “ _You’re_ the compulsive liar in this relationship!”

“I hardly ever –“

“Tell me one thing about you that is true that I don’t already know.”

“I’ll have you know, there are plenty –“

“Just one will do.”

“Fine. Let me see… I once went sailing, and my Mum nearly sunk the boat.”

Sean just snorts derisively. Orlando rolls his eyes but raises his hand, indicating for Sean to hold on. He tries again.

“Okay, okay. I prefer tossing off with my right hand.”

“Fifty-fifty chance?” Sean weighs his head from side to side. “Still, no. But nice diversion, the mental image.”

Orlando leans back and now seriously considers the task. Then he smiles.

“Alright, smartarse. How about this: Every morning I wake up and I see you in bed next to me, I know it’s gonna be a great day. Because I love being with you.”

Leaning back in his seat, Orlando looks impossibly smug. Sean tries to kick his calf. Orlando pulls his legs back as far as possible (which is pretty far, given the legroom in First Class). Sean reaches over and whacks him. Orlando returns the favour.

“And have you ever listened to yourself when you talk about my relatives, Pinocchio?” Orlando asks, on the offensive now. “You regularly make them sound like characters from an H.E. Bates novel.”

Sean laughs at the comparison. It is so very clever, like usually only Orlando’s lies are.

“No, they _act_ like characters from a Bates novel. I just happen to have tickets for the show. Remember the time your Uncle Maxwell tried to sell me your estate?”

Orlando inherited a country manor some years back. He rented out two-thirds of it to a hotel chain because he disliked the thought of all the empty rooms. Actually, it was in there, in the hotel restaurant, that Maxwell approached Sean. Over chocolate cheesecake. 

Orlando, however, firmly shakes his head.

“He just wanted to know whether you have a room in the hotel or were staying with me. He gets confused sometimes.” 

“No, Lando. He slipped me a rusty key for the East Wing and his bank information. Next time I saw him, he took me aside and asked me where his money was, since I had obviously moved in.”

Orlando’s smile is broad enough to take over his entire face. Tall tales are an aphrodisiac if you ask him.

“Did you now? I thought you were around more, recently.”

“And yet you still haven’t turned the billiard room into a walk-in closet.”

“True enough.”

Orlando crosses his legs at the ankles and looks out the window; contemplation compressed to ten seconds. The stewardess looks their way again and comes over when Sean smiles at her. She smiles, all white teeth and professional charm again and none of that wide-eyed surprise Orlando semi-accidentally caused earlier. Sean asks her for two coffees and watches as she picks up their tumblers and walks away. 

When she brings their coffees, she momentarily slips into flirtatiousness as Orlando automatically responds with a ‘thank you, love’. Orlando’s absentminded gaze follows her as she returns to the front of the plane, his fingers caress the cup in his hand. 

“Penny for them?” Sean asks, and Orlando’s eyes regain focus.

“I think I might get the bedroom redone, in the estate,” he idly says. “The carpet is nice enough, and the curtains, I suppose, even though you always leave them open.”

“I like the view.”

“People walking past probably think the same thing. I don’t mind your exhibitionistic tendencies –“

“The windows face your garden.”

“ – but the stupid wardrobe doors are a constant bother. They just won’t stay shut. New furniture should take care of that. Do you really want a walk-in closet?”

“It’s your house.”

“Unlike my Uncle Maxwell, I am aware of that, Sean.”

For all the travelling they do, for all the love Sean has for New York as well as London, he’s looking forward to waking up in the manor again. The generosity of the rooms, the lush garden and its rhododendrons, the quietness; all of it so obviously Orlando’s.

“So?” Sean asks.

“So, you want one?”

Sean rests his chin on his fist and smiles. Orlando raises his cup, and as he licks his lips, his tongue traces the response. Sean remembers why he doesn’t mind flying after all. Easy, like pretty much everything with Orlando. Orlando sips from his coffee, pulls a face, and then he pours generous amounts of sugar (his as well as Sean’s) into his cup.

“Also,” he says, stirring, “I’m thinking about getting a Paul Colin for the living room.”

“The posters we saw at the exhibition? I liked those.”

Orlando raises his cup again and makes a pleased sound that sounds a little bit like the one Sean makes when there’s croissants. He licks his lips and nods to himself.

“I do have excellent taste.”

Sean scoffs quietly.

“Debatable. Not when it comes to local scenery.”

“Come on, you’d have grown to love the painting of the pub.”

“Why _did_ he paint that place of all places? I thought he was hired to do a portrait. Was that part of a secret message?”

Orlando arches a brow, taking the bait. He taps his chin, fingertips worrying his goatee as he is thinking.

“Actually, it might be a whole ring of spies, operating from Sycamore Springs.”

“Handsworth.”

“Right, Handsworth.” Orlando contemplates this for merely the fraction of a second, then the bits and pieces of the story have realigned themselves. “Now how about this: Your mother, she turns out to be a criminal mastermind.“

“I’m listening.”

Orlando grins broadly and turns fully towards Sean, ready for Round Two. There is still plenty of time left until they land, but a couple of hours have never intimidated him. Sean picks up his coffee and makes a ‘go on’ motion with his free hand.

Once they’ll reach Sean’s parents’ doorstep, Orlando will have phased down to a quieter, subtler version of himself. It will show a little less of the fascination with drama and bloodshed on the surface, more of the easy contentedness with who and where he is. And Sean’s Mum will adore him, Sean’s Dad will feel comfortable around him. Once they’ll reach Sheffield, it won’t be the stage for Orlando’s spin-off version of reality; murder and espionage will have been put into storage. 

Sean _will_ almost certainly get some hideous painting or other for his birthday, though.

The End (For real this time. For now, at least)

**Author's Note:**

> The entire rather ludicrous story is of course stolen from Dashiell Hammett’s “The Thin Man Goes Home”, movie version, and Sean repeatedly references to Nick Charles’ hometown Sycamore Springs. Orlando just changed the names from the characters in the movie to those of characters played by other Rings actors.


End file.
